


A Wolf and a Dragon

by phoebe_7



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-17
Updated: 2015-02-17
Packaged: 2018-03-13 10:32:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3378278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoebe_7/pseuds/phoebe_7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What becomes of Jon Snow after the end of book five? This story is an attempt to answer that question. Spoilers for all five books in the series. Some light Jon/Alys. One-shot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Wolf and a Dragon

Jon sat half-upright against a wall on his humble cot in Donal Noye’s old rooms behind the armory. He was warmer and more comfortable than he’d been since the day he left Winterfell, though he sat there clothed in nothing more than a pair of thin wool trousers — one of the few things from Winterfell he hadn’t yet given up — and his direwolf. Jon smiled and ruffled the animal’s fur. Ghost lay so close, the beast was practically on top of him.

Jon’s gaze shifted back to his own chest and abdomen for what must have been the hundredth time in the past hour, still not believing what he saw there: scars. _Scars instead of stab wounds_. And his burned hand appeared to have re-healed itself properly. It was hard to say whether he found the scars or the scene around him more bewildering.

He was joined in his room by Tormund, Satin, Val, and — somewhat alarmingly — Lady Alys Karstark. _Seven hells, that girl_. Jon silently thanked the old gods that Satin had remembered to cover him with something, and that most of his body was still covered in blackened ash, effectively hiding the blush that hit him like a wave every time he looked at her. _Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch and I can’t even look a young widow in the eye_.

It pained the noblest part of him to admit it — the part of him that truly did want to do his duty and keep to his vows, no matter what his body or his mind wanted — but Alys fascinated him. And had done since the moment she came to the Wall begging him for a ludicrous marriage to it-didn’t-matter-who. There had been a humor and intelligence about her, even amidst the urgency and desperation of her situation, that he quickly grew to enjoy.

Even without her playfulness and her rather lovely smile, he would have appreciated her understated prettiness. She was not so voluptuous and soft as Val, nor was she slight like Gilly; not so striking or athletic as Ygritte, but not so lithe as Ros the whore either. She was just . . . nice. The kind of nice you could really get used to.

Growing up in the cold, snowy North, he had always been struck by how Northern women and girls carried themselves. Though he knew objectively that she had been somewhat plain as a child, there had always been a warmth to Arya, warmth that could not only be due to her affection for him, because he had sensed it in other Northern ladies like the Mormonts — women he’d always thought of as _true_ Northerners.

If you were looking, and he knew that most people weren’t (because, unlike the bastard son of a great lord, most people didn’t have reason to doubt their place in the world, whatever it was), but if you were looking, you could see it in the way they moved among their people, in the readiness of their laughter among friends, and in the steadfastness of their loyalty.

He’d seen the way people looked at Arya, plainer daughter though she was. He could feel it in the way they reacted differently to her presence than they did to Sansa’s or Lady Catelyn’s. They respected Sansa and Lady Catelyn, who, however cruelly she had treated Jon, had always been a fair and benevolent mistress of Winterfell. But with Arya, who had long ago bullied everyone from the lowliest farmhand to their father’s top lieutenants into dispensing with formal courtesies (though they refused to call her anything but “Lady Arya”), it was different. With Arya their entire countenance changed.

They often smiled, and their posture would relax ever so slightly, as she peppered them with questions and non sequiturs born of her seemingly limitless curiosity. Her bluntness and her increasingly tomboyish habits endeared her, rather than alienating her, because they had known her ever since she’d been old enough to escape her nurses. They loved his baby sister in a way that they loved no one else, save his father . . . and perhaps Bran, who was much the same, and had been climbing the walls of the keep almost as long as Arya had been hiding from septas.

Arya was not at all like his father’s wife, or Sansa, who not only looked entirely Southern, but played the part as well. There was an iciness to them that belied their fiery red hair and seemed to defy the very warmth of Winterfell’s hot springs. In some terrific kind of irony, it seemed to Jon that you could always tell Northern ladies from Southern, not by looking at them or their banners, but simply by standing or sitting next to them. In his experience, it was Northern ladies who possessed all the warmth, while Southern ladies had all the appearance of it.

The warmth that he had always felt coming from Arya, he felt again from Lady Alys.

And there were times, every once in a while, when her smile reminded him so much of Arya’s that he could barely stand upright from the grief that washed over him. And yet, he found himself craving the familiarity of it, as if seeing his sister’s smile on Alys’s face was a kind of confirmation that Arya was alive.

To put it simply, he liked her smile because it gave him hope.

But it was her eyes that posed the greatest danger — even in the most impossible situations they seemed to sparkle and dance and ask questions of him that he dare not try to decipher. _Not while he was half-naked, anyway. Certainly not while he still had his vows_.

Her husband-from-beyond-the-Wall had been a good man and, while Jon did not think she had loved him, her affection for him had grown from mere appreciation as the means of her salvation to a genuine respect and friendly admiration. He had been killed in the melee during the assassination attempt on Jon’s life, and she genuinely mourned his loss.

Or so Val had informed him. It certainly explained her tear-stained face and red eyes. _It did not explain the pleasantly exhausted smile she had kept trained on him for the last hour_.

To say that the past 24 hours of Jon’s life had been a little surreal would be a colossal understatement.

For his part, Jon only had details from the four sitting around him, and Leathers, for his own knowledge of what had transpired. Rory and Horse had accompanied Leathers to see him, but said nothing during the entire visit. Whether they kept silent out of awe or fear, Jon could not say.

One glance at Melisandre as Tormund and his son Toregg helped him back to the armory had given him all the confirmation he needed. _Daggers and darkness, indeed_. He had learned the hard way that he must trust her visions from now on, if not her poor interpretations of them.

As his eyes grazed over the scars on his abdomen once more, he vaguely noted Satin leaving the room, and his thoughts turned to what his friends had told him. He remembered Bowen Marsh stabbing him in the gut even as tears ran down the Lord Steward’s cheeks; he had thought of Ghost then, picturing him in his mind, and then felt something strike him from behind.

He remembered blinding agony, and then his mind filled suddenly with the image of his little sister. _Stick them with the pointy end_ , Arya’s voice reminded him, cruel and sweet all at once. And then nothing.

When others began to realize that he’d been attacked, they turned their attention to his would-be assassins. Ghost had been liberated from his chambers by a concerned Satin even before the loyal page had known of the attack. _Ghost had known, though. Ghost always knows_. His direwolf had raced to his side, predictably frightening the giant boar in the process. At which point, all hell had broken loose.

The combined efforts of Leathers, Horse, Rory, and — amazingly — Shireen Baratheon had eventually calmed and sedated Wun Wun, although not until after the giant had disposed of three of Queen Selyse’s knights. Leathers had told him with a chuckle that the little princess had not seemed particularly sorry to see them go.

Bowen Marsh had been gored by a wayward tusk as Borroq’s boar thrashed wildly in fear, but somehow survived. Othell Yarwyck had fallen to Borroq’s spear after trying to kill the monstrous beast. The boar died eventually, as did Borroq, but at whose hands no one could say. Ghost had gone straight for Wick and torn out his throat, as if he’d known that Wick had landed the first blow. _Of course Ghost had known. Ghost always knows_.

With no maester in residence, Stannis off to reconquer Winterfell, and Queen Selyse content to watch Jon die, Satin had immediately sought out Val to take charge of his care, while Tormund and his sons had carried Jon to his chambers. Val and Lady Alys had hurried back with Satin to offer what assistance they could, but it soon became clear that his condition was very grave indeed.

The four who surrounded his bed now had been there the day before as he clung to life, unconscious but breathing. By the next morning, they all sat in silent vigil, having exhausted all possible remedies. At some point Ghost had climbed onto Jon’s cot and laid down next to him. The only sounds that could be heard were Val’s and Alys’s ministrations as they took turns cleaning and re-dressing his wounds, and Satin’s light footsteps as he ran to fetch food, wine, and whatever supplies they needed.

At last, in the early afternoon, he had stopped breathing. Ghost had sat up at the foot of his bed, and howled mournfully, startling his four companions out of their fatigue, who then discovered that his chest no longer moved and no air could be felt from his nose and mouth.

With the threat of wights and white walkers so close and unpredictable, the bodies of the other dead men (and beast) were already being prepared for burning when Tormund, Leathers, Toregg, and another of Tormund’s sons brought Jon out to join them.

According to Val, when Jon’s body was brought in view of the remaining wildlings and Night’s Watchmen, silence gripped the entirety of Castle Black. With the conspirators all dead, save Bowen Marsh, and the Queen refusing to leave her chambers, there was only loyalty and deference shown to the fallen Lord Commander as his body was prepared for the necessary precaution.

Ghost sat stoically next to the pyre, watching as Jon’s body was readied for burning. Both Val and Tormund had been struck by how calm and not at all distressed the direwolf seemed. _Almost as if Ghost had known. But Ghost always knows._

There were three pyres constructed, two large ones all ready to be lit — one holding wildling dead and the boar, the other holding former Night’s Watchmen. Jon was placed apart from the others, on a third, smaller structure with his hands folded over his sword. They had to move quickly as it was already turning from dusk to evening, and so the fires were lit and stoked until they burned high and hot into the darkening Northern sky.

Melisandre watched stone-faced from a distance, but at some point Princess Shireen had appeared next to Alys and Val, and the three of them wept silently as Jon’s body was overtaken and obscured by the flames.

No one could say how long the inhabitants of Castle Black kept their quiet vigil. Until something broke them all out of their collective grief.

The wood of the pyres began to crack and shift in quick succession as they burned, startling everyone who had gathered. The fires burned so violently that it was impossible to make out any individual bodies anymore. And then the small fire engulfing the Lord Commander had blazed a bright, blinding white — _white as a ghost! Tormund had said with his usual bark of laughter_ — in a sort of pulse, rising higher in the sky than the other two larger fires for only a moment before lowering again, and finally burning out.

For a beat, no one had stirred, watching the blackened mound that had been Jon’s body and funeral pyre. And then the mound had moved.

Amid gasps and confused silence, Princess Shireen had slowly and quietly approached, stopping next to where Ghost still sat with his red eyes trained on the blackened rubble. Something stirred again in the ashen remains of the pyre. And then Jon had sat up.

Ghost immediately stood and stepped closer. It was at this point that Jon’s own memories resumed. The shocked silence of the entire population of Castle Black left him momentarily oblivious to their presence, and allowed him to look over his arms and legs as his mind recognized that he was awake, and practically naked, and _alive_.

As his brain began to register how warm his body felt, despite his near-nakedness and the snow all around him, his attention was distracted by a young girl’s voice, and again his sister’s face had flooded his mind.

“Lord Commander,” the small voice repeated, and he realized, with no small amount of disappointment, that Arya would never have addressed him that way. He finally turned his head, immediately recognizing Shireen Baratheon’s kind, grayscale-marred face. Ghost stepped forward and nuzzled him, while Jon wrapped his arm around the beast’s shoulders in a half-embrace and did his best not to weep. _Out of joy or despair, he could not say_.

“Princess, forgive me, I—” he wasn’t sure what he had meant to say in apology, but the sweetness of her chuckle at his confusion made him forget it.

“Lord Snow, I think I may speak for your friends among the wildlings and the Night’s Watch when I say, welcome back.” The princess smiled at him in a content, if relieved way, and he could not help but respond with a small smile of his own.

Then Ghost had let out a howl unlike any Jon had ever heard — loud and strong and not at all melancholy — the way his brothers and sisters used to howl as pups, though Ghost himself never did. _Until now_. Jon’s heart was suddenly filled with strength and hope, and just like that, his friends had surrounded him, covered him up, and brought him to his feet, escorting him back to his chambers while excited conversation and commotion spread through the rest of the castle.

So here he was, surrounded by those friends, having been briefed and visited by Leathers, trying to understand what in seven hells had happened.

Trying — and failing — to avoid eye contact with Lady Alys.

Tyrion Lannister had once explained that he and his brother Jaime each had a duty to uphold the honor of their house by whatever means they had at their disposal; Jaime with his sword, and Tyrion with his mind. Rather absurdly, given the urgency of much more pressing concerns, Jon now found himself considering whether women weren’t burdened with a similar duty, even if they were somewhat more limited in the tools they could employ for such a purpose.

Like the Kingslayer, his sister Arya had been blessed with the rare combination of natural talent and her own sword, which she could use to protect what remained of her House and her own independence. But, like Tyrion, Lady Alys had been much more restricted in her choices and must protect herself and her family’s honor through sharpness of mind — an attribute that had brought her to the Wall in the first place, and led her to speak up now.

“You must like the fire, Lord Snow, despite your name,” she observed wryly but not unkindly. “You seem to have shed that sullen look so common among bastards. If we had another wedding here, you might even dance.” For some reason the hated label did not bother him when she said it. It had been the same way with Arya, the few times she ever uttered it. He smiled.

“Yes, my lady. Perhaps I should go back for more,” he joked, pretending to get up. She chuckled in response, and his face burned with self-awareness at being the cause.

“I think, for now, it would be wise to leave well enough alone,” she added. “Sullen or not, you are alive, and while I think we are all loathe to question a miracle, it seems imperative that we should understand how and why you revived.” Her statements were thoughtful and confident, and he appreciated both the soundness of her logic and the respect in her tone.

Just then, Satin returned, slipping into the room from another one of his errands, silent except that he seemed slightly out of breath.

“Satin,” Jon addressed him, with a pleasant smile. The boy looked utterly relieved.

“Lord Snow! There is another visitor come to the Wall, and he begs to speak with you.” Everyone sat up straighter, their attention piqued.

“Does he give a name?”

“He does. He gives the name Reed, and claims to be a loyal friend of the late Lord Eddard Stark, and of the Lord Commander, too.” Recognition lit up Lady Alys’ face, and she turned to share a knowing look with Jon as she began to speak.

“If it is Howland Reed, he could be of much use to us,” she said to Jon. Then she turned to the young page. “Satin, does he come alone?”

“No, milady. He is joined by a small party. Guards, I think. And a maester,” Satin replied, before turning back to Jon. “He does not look to be in the best of health, milord.” Jon nodded, again sharing a look with Lady Alys.

“Tell Leathers I need him to see that our visitors’ horses and belongings are properly attended to, and then you bring Lord Reed straight here.” He glanced at Tormund, who seemed to understand his meaning and nodded. “Find Toregg and tell him to accompany you at my request. I don’t want anyone interfering with our visitors until I’ve seen them.” Satin nodded in understanding and left as quickly and quietly as he had come. Shortly after, Ghost got up and followed him out the door. Tormund chuckled.

“Har! Your boy won’t need protecting if Toregg’s with him, but your Ghost knows what loyalty is, I’ll grant him that,” Tormund said with approval.

“Wolves are from the North, same as us,” Alys reminded him with a good-natured smirk. “They remember.”

“Aye, so they are, and so they do,” Tormund agreed.

“Who is this Reed?” Val asked. Jon thought back to what he had heard of Howland Reed as a boy, but it was Lady Alys who answered.

“The Reeds are crannogmen, and their seat is at Greywater Watch. They are the great family of the Neck, which is the gateway from the southlands to what those below the Wall know as The North. They are a small people, and keep to themselves, but they are frank and resourceful and loyal, if even half of what I’ve heard about them is true. And, as the boy said, below the Wall it is well known that Howland Reed was one of Lord Eddard’s, and the Lady Lyanna’s, oldest and most loyal friends.” Jon nodded, remembering the bits and pieces of stories he’d heard from Robb, Jory, Sir Roderik, and his father.

“He also saved my father’s life,” Jon added. “When my Aunt Lyanna was being held by Rhaegar Targaryen, Howland Reed and five others accompanied my father to Dorne to find her. She was kept in the Tower of Joy, and guarded by three of the Kingsguard, including the Sword of the Morning himself, Ser Arthur Dayne. Lord Reed and my father were the only survivors.”

“And have you ever seen this Reed at your Winterfell?” Val continued. Jon shook his head slowly.

“No, not that I can remember.”

“It is said that, since the events that occurred at the Tower of Joy, he has not left Greywater Watch,” Alys explained.

“Until now,” Jon reminded her.

“Until now,” she agreed warily, then paused, as something struck her memory. “With your father dead, Howland Reed is the only living soul who knows what happened in the Tower that day…” As she trailed off, Ghost came back into the room, resuming his place on Jon’s bed. Jon scratched the wolf’s ears absent-mindedly as he watched Satin enter the room as well.

“Lord Snow, may I present Lord Howland Reed, of Greywater Watch,” Satin announced. A smallish man, with a wise, thoughtful face entered the room behind Satin. Though his countenance was calm, Jon saw the older man’s eyes register no small amount of surprise upon recognizing him. _My Stark looks, no doubt_. He could not deny that it was incredibly satisfying to see the older man’s reaction. _Just wait ‘til he sees Arya_. Howland Reed was followed by another taller, sturdier looking man, and then by Toregg.

“Thank you, Satin,” Jon replied. Howland Reed and the other man shared a startled look before returning their attention back to him. “Please fetch us some ale, and some dinner, if you would. Something simple but hearty, to establish guest right.” Satin nodded and was gone.

“Toregg, guard the door and see that no one but Lord Snow’s boy comes near this place,” Tormund instructed. Toregg nodded to his father, and then to Jon, and took up his post outside Jon’s chambers. At last Jon turned his full attention on their two visitors. Lady Alys gave up her chair and, to Jon’s surprise, sat herself on the large sturdy trunk at the foot of his cot. Ghost moved to lay down between them, though his keen red eyes never left Howland Reed.

“Lord Reed, please take a seat, you must be weary after traveling so far,” Jon invited, indicating the chair that Alys had just vacated. Reed bowed his head in thanks, and sat. The other man stood next to his chair. He was dressed all in black, but in garments that were too finely made to be those of a Night’s Watchman. Even so, Jon thought the man looked vaguely familiar.

“Thank you, Lord Commander,” Howland Reed replied. “I am not as young as I once was, and it has been many years since I traveled so far. I find that it wears me out much more than it used to.” He indicated the man standing at his side. “May I present the Blackfish, Ser Brynden Tully, senior commander under King Robb, and uncle to the Lady Catelyn.” At this, Jon sat up straighter.

“You are most welcome, Ser Brynden,” Jon acknowledged earnestly. “I fear your niece felt nothing but contempt for me, even if her children loved me as their brother, and I them. But I bear her family no ill will, and I hope her family would bear me none in return.” At this, Howland Reed cracked a small smile, while the Blackfish made an attempt at graciousness, though it seemed a reluctant one.

“Lord Commander, I thank you for your honest and respectful welcome, and I will honor it by giving you the same in return. I am not predisposed to look favorably on you, ser, but I also knew my niece’s faults, perhaps better than anyone. And I know well that King Robb did love you as his brother, which is a credit to you both. But more than that, I trust Lord Howland, and I believe him when he tells me we that must find you and turn the world upside down.”

“I thank you for your honesty, ser,” Jon replied with a nod. He glanced at Alys and Tormund before turning back to his father’s old friend. “Lord Reed, why have you traveled all this way to see me?”

“To tell you the truth of your parentage.” Jon felt Alys’s eyes turn to him in anticipation, but he kept his gaze on Howland Reed.

“My mother.”

“Yes, your mother. But parentage requires a man and a woman, and truth must illuminate the whole story, or it is no truth at all.”

“My father was Lord Eddard Stark.”

“No, my lord. He was not,” Reed corrected, gravely. Jon felt his insides turn over, and for a moment he thought he might be sick on the floor in front of him.

“I’m sorry, Jon,” Lord Reed continued, as Jon continued to react in silence. “I know this is difficult to hear. But do not doubt the bond of family and blood that you shared. He was your closest living blood relative — well, he and Benjen — but he was not your father.”

“But, my lord…” Jon tried, as his mind grasped and struggled to compose itself and make sense of what the man was saying. “My uncle Benjen was far too young to have fathered any child. And Brandon Stark died more than a year before I was born. It could not have been him either.” And he _was_ a Stark. Jon knew he was, it was quite literally written on his face, in his very skin, and most of all in his eyes that were the same shape and stormy gray as Arya’s.

“True enough,” Howland Reed acknowledged. “He was long dead before Ned and I went to Dorne to find Lya...” He paused, his gaze holding Jon’s own. “…to find your mother.”

He said it matter-of-factly, but with an understated conviction that left Jon unable to doubt it, no matter how much he wanted to. Alys’s eyes were wide at this revelation.

“But then, who . . .” Jon couldn’t bring himself to finish the question, but Lord Reed answered him anyway.

“. . . who was your father? None other than the crown prince, Rhaegar Targaryen.” Howland Reed’s statement was met with stunned silence. Jon stared at Ghost, eyes unseeing, absent-mindedly scratching behind the animal’s ears as he tried to digest this information.

“So then it’s true,” he managed, his words laced with disgust. “Rhaegar Targaryen did kidnap and rape Lyanna Stark. And I am the result.”

“No, Jon,” Howland Reed said sternly, getting up, approaching, and kneeling in front of him, dropping all formality of address in his earnestness. “That is not what happened. Whatever else he did, I swear, on Ned’s and Lya’s graves, on my children’s lives, I swear that your mother came to no harm at the hands of Rhaegar Targaryen. She cared for him, and he made her his lawful wife.” Jon was relieved and stunned and furious all at once, but Lord Reed’s hands grasped his own, and kept him from shouting or getting up as the older man began to explain.

“Your mother liked Rhaegar’s intelligence and wit, and dreaded the prospect of a life as Lady Baratheon. Few beyond Lord Rickard, Ned and I knew of the strong reservations she had expressed about her betrothal. Rhaegar was the first man who truly respected her as an equal, and that was all Lya ever wanted,” Reed explained sadly. Jon’s countenance calmed immediately as he thought of Arya, and he nodded in understanding.

“Men, you must understand, were either in awe of her, or half in love with her, or they treated her as a prize to be won. Even her brothers, devoted as they were, and her friends — including me, I regret to say — were unable to see her any other way. But not Rhaegar.”

“When they learned that she was with child, it was imperative that she be hidden and protected — from his father’s madness, Tywin Lannister’s ruthlessness, and Robert Baratheon’s jealousy, among other things. Lyanna feared for herself and her child if she was found and forced to return to her family.

“Then, as it happened, you came early. And I have it from Lya’s own lips that you did know your father, though of course you won’t have any recollection of it. When Rhaegar left to lead his father’s forces at the Trident, you had already been born and living happily with both of your parents for several weeks.

“But then Robert killed Rhaegar and Jaime Lannister killed Aerys, and Lord Tywin sacked King’s Landing. After Robert and Ned fell out over what the Mountain did to Rhaegar’s first wife, Elia, and their two young children, we went to Dorne straight away to find Lya, who was living in the Tower of Joy, and I’m sure you know the story — she was protected by three of the Kingsguard, who were under the prince’s orders that no one was to be admitted to see her, save themselves, her own maids, and the maester.

“Rhaegar believed that anyone else, including brothers and friends who had recently been fighting for Robert, would try to abduct her. And he was right, of course. At the time, we had no idea that Lya was there voluntarily, so that’s exactly what we were planning to do. It was only after we saw her and spoke to her that we understood.”

“But then, if you saw her, and spoke to her, why—“ Jon blurted out. Howland Reed anticipated his question.

“—why did she die?” Jon nodded in confirmation.

“Soon after Rhaegar left for the Trident, she had learned that she was with child again. Only this time… something went wrong.” There was a pause in the older man’s speech; this revelation was particularly difficult for both speaker and listener to bear. Howland Reed took a moment to compose himself, and continued. “Rhaegar falling in battle added considerably to her distress. The maester had gone away seeking a rare medicine to help her recover, but when we found her, he had not yet returned and she was in a very bad way. She had miscarried very recently, and lost a lot of blood.

Jon was struck dumb as revelation after revelation hit him; through his shock, his mind vaguely registered that someone else’s softer, smaller fingers had entwined with his own. He squeezed them for want of any other outlet, and they squeezed back in solidarity as Lord Reed continued.

“Ned and I did what we could for her as she explained what had happened and told us about you. Even as she was dying, I’m not sure I ever saw her look so happy as when she told Ned about his nephew, and introduced us to you. I went to find what help I could, and with her dying breath, she made Ned promise that we would protect you and keep your true identity a secret. It was the easiest promise he ever made; we had just seen Robert condone the Mountain’s brutal murder of two of Rhaegar’s young children, and neither of us doubted that Robert would do so again, even if the child was Lya’s.

“She died just before I returned, and Ned told me what they had discussed. Fortunately, dark features always dominate fair ones, and you were born with all your mother’s looks. Ned decided to raise you as his bastard, in his own household, so he could keep you close. I offered to foster you from the start, since we get few visitors at Greywater Watch, quite unlike the highly visible Winterfell. But he wanted you close.” Howland Reed paused, remembering, and wore a sad smile.

“He once told me that it worked even better than we could have imagined, because you looked every inch a Stark, and little Arya apparently looked and acted so much like Lya that she unwittingly served as a daily reminder to keep his promise.” Jon smiled sadly. No wonder Arya had always been their fath— _no, his uncle’s_ — favorite.

“I have never met the young Lady Arya, but if she resembles Lya even half as much as you resemble Ned…” Lord Howland shook his head in disbelief. “I wonder, truly, if my old heart could bear it.” Jon felt a wave of grief for his lost sister — _no, cousin_ — and the mother he would never meet, but choked it down enough to speak.

“If my mother was anything like Arya, she must have been a brilliant woman indeed,” he assured the older man. “Everyone always remarked how much she looked like her aunt. And the way she rode…” Jon trailed off as he noticed Howland Reed begin to lose his composure, but his mother’s old friend quickly recovered himself.

“Your Arya must be quite extraordinary if Ned thought the resemblance was so striking. And if she rode like her, too . . .”  

Silence fell over the room as one Lord recalled his beloved sister, and the other his dearest friend.

“Lady Lyanna. And Rhaegar Targaryen. And all this time, he . . .” Alys said to herself in disbelief, trailing off quietly, but drawing the attention of the others. Jon squeezed her hand again, and she squeezed back.

“Yes, he did,” Reed confirmed, recovering himself. “All this time. That’s what a brother does when his beloved sister makes a dying request, my Lady —” at Howland Reed’s pause, Jon realized he had (rather understandably) forgotten his courtesies entirely.

“My apologies —” he began, absent-mindedly removing his hand from hers as if to stand, but Alys answered for herself.

“Karstark. I am Lady Alys Karstark, of Karhold; daughter of the late Lord Rickard Karstark. And with my father and brothers dead or captured, his only remaining trueborn heir. That is, if I ever manage to return to my family’s seat without being murdered or married by my uncle or one of his vile sons.” Reed nodded in understanding. The Blackfish smiled broadly in amusement.

“I like this one,” he said to Lord Reed good-naturedly, though the others could hear him. Howland Reed resolutely refused to grin, but his eyes were bright with approval as he looked from Jon to Alys and back again.

“Well, thank you, Ser Brynden,” Alys replied with no small amount of amusement, and a trace of apprehension as well. “It’s not every day one receives a compliment from the Blackfish. But I’m still stuck on the bit where you said Jon is the trueborn heir to the Iron Throne.” _She called him Jon. She had never called him Jon before_.

Jon had been so pre-occupied with the shock of hearing the tragic circumstances of his birth, that his mind hadn’t even begun to sort out the implications of his true parentage.

_Heir to the Iron Throne?_ He shuddered at the thought. _It should be Robb, not me._ His brothe— _no, cousin_ — had been born to lead, whether as Lord of Winterfell, or King of the North. He was a good man, and he had the temperament for it. A talent for making his people love him without trying, or even realizing it. He didn’t even look like a Stark, but somehow people always managed to see Ned Stark’s goodness through Robb’s easy charm and Tully blue eyes.

Though no less loyal or just — and a good bit cleverer — Jon had long been aware that he had all the Stark looks and none of the temperament. _I don’t want it_.

As Jon’s mind jumped around all the thoughts bombarding him at once, the others watched in silence, until at last the Blackfish spoke up.

“Forgive me, Lord Commander,” he began, “but would you be so good as to tell what has gone on here? We saw a fair degree of damage to the castle on our way in, and I beg your pardon, but you look like you’ve been bathing in a blacksmith’s forge.”

Jon and his friends chuckled, realizing at the same time that their esteemed guests had no knowledge of the extraordinary events that had allowed Jon to hear the story of his parentage in the first place. As he explained what had transpired, with occasional help from Alys in filling in parts of the story, he saw the two older men share a knowing look.

“As it was, I never doubted Lya’s words about who you are and how you came to be,” Howland Reed said, “but this confirms it as nothing else could have done. You are without doubt both a wolf and a dragon.” At Jon’s questioning look, the old man provided some intelligence in return.

“Ned always said that you were clever, so the fact that you haven’t made the connection on your own must mean you have not heard the rumors from across the narrow sea about Daenarys Targaryen.” He paused. “Your aunt.”

“Indeed, what rumors?” Jon prompted. It was the Blackfish who answered.

“Rumors that she walked into her Dothraki husband’s funeral pyre carrying three large stones, and then walked out again, alive, holding three newborn dragons.” Jon shared a wide-eyed look first with Alys, then Tormund and Val, who all appeared to be realizing the same thing he was. _Dragon fire would destroy wights. Dragon fire could defeat the Others_.

 


End file.
